


like a southbound train

by elysiumwaits



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Arguing, Character Study, Established Relationship, F/M, Happy Ending, Making Up, Relationship Study, Vic Goes to Therapy, Vic Says Fuck, characters have flaws and we should talk about that, relationships aren't easy and we should talk about that too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26086795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elysiumwaits/pseuds/elysiumwaits
Summary: Even with all the time they've had together, with as much as they love and understand each other, navigating a relationship isn't exactly easy for Vic and Walt.
Relationships: Cady Longmire & Victoria "Vic" Moretti, Walt Longmire/Victoria "Vic" Moretti
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33
Collections: New Year's Resolutions 2020





	like a southbound train

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lizwontcry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizwontcry/gifts).



> So I always associate Longmire with country music, and I really liked the idea of using the song "Wagon Wheel," especially Darius Rucker's cover. The song is about a gambler finding his way home by hitchhiking down the coast to Raleigh, and it's... I don't know, symbolic, I guess? Of closing the gaps between ourselves and the people that we love. I'm not sure the music fits, but the lyrics do.
> 
> I tend to mix show and book canon because I have a hard time differentiating. By which I mean, Vic says "fuck" a lot.
> 
> As always, I abused the italics.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy this treat, I know it's a little late in the year!

When it's all said and done, Vic goes back to work. 

She's as healed up as she's going to get. Physically, she's fine - Vic's workouts include tagging along with whatever cowboy-mountain man adventure that Walt's got going on, horse riding, and some excellent sex. Healing mentally and emotionally though? Vic can admit she's never been good at rolling with those kinds of punches. Besides, _this_... this isn't something that people just come back from. Vic feels the loss in her bones every day, even as it's dulled into a longing ache over time.

Mostly, anyway. It's been eight months, and Vic still sometimes feels the ghosts of what could have been wash over her, like the terror and heat of stepping into a burning building. 

But most of the time, Vic's okay. She has the blessing of her therapist, after all. That means something.

The uniform feels strange and stiff on her skin when she pulls it on while Walt watches from the doorway of the bedroom. _Their bedroom_ , Vic reminds herself for the six-hundredth or so time. She feels like she's intruding on some kind of sacred space when she's in this house sometimes, looking over her shoulder and expecting the spectre of Martha Longmire to be staring at her disapprovingly. 

She fumbles with the buttons a little, fingers unused to the shirt after so long away. When Vic looks up at herself in the mirror, Walt's still there. His eyes always feel intense when he watches her like this, and he's a looming figure where he stands. It's comforting, more than Vic wants to admit. She's never been one to let anyone solve her problems for her, but she likes that she knows that Walt could and _would_ , in a heartbeat, no questions asked. In the privacy of her own mind and patient confidentiality, Vic can admit that Walt makes her feel safe.

Apparently that's something she needs now.

"Take a fucking picture, it'll last longer," Vic finally sing-songs when Walt hasn't moved or said anything by the time she's reached the last button. 

It earns her a breath of laughter, that huff and crooked smile he does. It's got a strange boyish charm to it. Vic can picture him in his 20s sometimes, sparkling blue eyes and wry grin, looking like the cowboy on the cover of a cheap trashy romance novel. He's just more focused now than it would have been then, always something serious behind the blue these days. Time treated Walt well.

Speaking of Walt. "A picture wouldn't catch the sunlight right," he says, straightening up in the doorway.

Vic rolls her eyes. Getting her pants on is a good excuse for her to look down and try to hide the blush and the curl of her lips threatening to become a smile. "Don't start something I don't have time to finish, Walt. It'll just distract the both of us all day." 

It's tempting, Vic thinks, tilting her head a little and digging her teeth into the left corner of her lower lip. But she's already got her shirt buttoned and her pants on. She doesn't want to have to explain that she was late because she was busy fucking the new Sheriff's father.

A beat. She hears him take a breath, and then: "We'll have time if you stay home instead."

Something about the tone makes Vic's skin go tight, like a cat whose fur has been stroked the wrong way. Her duty belt is on the dresser. Threading it through the belt loops of her pants gives her a moment to wrangle her immediate knee-jerk reaction to start yelling. After taking a minute to do the breath exercise bullshit her therapist taught her, Vic starts clipping her equipment into place. 

Vic pointedly doesn't look up at Walt. "I swear to god, if you're trying to bribe me into quitting with sex..." She doesn't finish. She doesn't know what she'll do, actually. All Vic really knows is that it's not okay and that she's _pissed_ about it.

"I don't think it counts as bribery," Walt says - deflection and levity. 

Vic may scream. "Have you ever thought about just saying what you _fucking mean_? I hate this cryptic, subtext _bullshit_." She doesn't actually have to push past him to get out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. Walt steps aside for her, gives her room to get where she needs to go. Usually, it'd be sweet that he knows her well enough to know she hates being manhandled like that. 

He follows her, of course. They're not done talking yet, even if it's looking to build into a _discussion._ "Maybe it's not the right time, Vic," he says, as calm and frustrating as ever.

Pulling her hair back into a ponytail is more muscle memory than thought. Vic ends up looking at him in the mirror again, her jaw tight and her eyes narrowed. "'Not the right time?' What the fuck does that _mean_?" Makeup is equally as thoughtless as her hair, since her routine has been set for years now.

"It means it's not the right time, Vic." Oh, he's annoyed now, snapping at her. Vic knows how much he hates being called out like this. For all of Walt's easy-living mannerisms, he's got some control issues. 

She drops her foundation brush with a loud clatter onto the bathroom counter, picking up the whole makeup bag. It won't be the first time she's done mascara and eye-shadow in her truck. Then she holds her breath, counts to five, and releases it all in one big rush before she turns to look at Walt.

"I'm going to work," Vic says firmly, and ducks under his arm past him again. 

"Vic."

" _Walt_." Her boots are by the door. Vic will have to sit on the edge of the chair to get them laced up just right.

A frustrated sound comes from behind her. "Stay home," Walt says, trying for calm like she can't hear the strained tone in his words.

One shoe on. " _Why_." Her fingers remember the movements. That's good, since Vic's distracted by the not-quite-argument they're having. "And why the hell didn't you bring it up yesterday? I'm already dressed!" She twists in the chair to look at him, one hand up to gesture angrily. 

"Vic, just-"

" _No_! No 'just.' I am _going_ to _work_ at the _job_ that I am _good at._ " There goes all the good work that therapy had taught her. Vic's good and mad now. "And fuck you for trying to _manipulate_ me, Walt, seriously?"

"I wasn't trying to manipulate you," Walt snaps back at her, shoulders tense and brows furrowed. 

Vic stands, abandoning her boot. "Yes, you damn well were! What the _fuck_ is your _fucking_ _problem_!" 

"You're not ready!" 

It's a burst, a yell. He does that when Vic pushes him to his breaking point, raises his voice so that it thunders. It always sets Vic's teeth on edge. "Don't yell at me," she hisses through her teeth. 

"You're not ready, Vic." Walt's gotten himself back under control. He knows she hates it. "The memories are gonna come back, you're gonna get into something that you can't handle."

It stings, a whipcrack of a statement. Vic is speechless from how much it actually hurts. "Alright," she breathes, furious, because it's better than _fuck you and the mule you rode in on_. "I'm going to work." If she stays, it's gonna escalate, she tells herself. They don't need to be standing here and screaming at each other. 

"Vic, wait." Walt sounds tired.

Vic slams the door behind her when she goes.

* * *

"Can I stay with you tonight?" 

It's strange, dropping into the chair across from the desk and seeing Cady instead of Walt. Vic doesn't think Cady has the right appearance for being a sheriff. She's wearing a cardigan. In Vic's mind, the long arm of the law shouldn't be wearing a _cardigan_. There's comfort in knowing that Cady's spine is made of steel, though, so Vic can let it go. Maybe.

"Good morning to you, too, Vic," Cady says with a smile, putting her pen down on whatever paperwork she was doing. It's also weird to see a laptop on the sheriff's desk. "Dad being an ass?"

Vic glances away, takes in the patchwork blanket draped over the couch against the wall. The silence stretches a little too long, but it's hard to talk about things. It's always been hard to talk about things. She's supposed to be reaching out to friends instead of bottling things up and waiting for them to explode. Cady is a good friend. Doesn't make it easier.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Cady finally says, casually. There's a hint of concern there, too. "And of course you can stay, if you still want to at the end of the day."

"He said I'm not ready to come back," Vic finally gets out. The rest is easier, now that the seal is broken. "Excuse me? I'm not _ready_? I haven't had eight fucking months of doctors and therapy for nothing. I'm _ready_ , I've been dying to work, I _like my job_. Who does he think he is to tell _me_ if I'm ready or not?" 

She takes a breath. Cady waits, fiddling with a pen while she watches Vic with kind eyes. 

"He tried to get me to come back to bed. He doesn't get to do that shit, why can't he ever just _say what he means_?" Vic drops her head back to blow an angry breath up at the ceiling. She's almost done, her anger and hurt returning to a simmer instead of a boil. "He thinks I'm gonna get a flashback or something, get 'into a situation I can't handle." It still stings, even when she says it mockingly.

After a moment where Vic doesn't talk, Cady finally speaks up. "So he's worried about you getting hurt."

The frustrated groan that Vic gives is satisfying to release.

"I'm not defending his actions," Cady says. "Because they're not okay. But Dad's always been like that, he can't handle getting worried and scared about the people he loves, so he just... explodes. Starts bossing people around so he can be in control."

"The action is not valid but the emotion is." Vic parrots her therapist, still looking at the ceiling. When was the last time they cleaned that? They should repaint or something. 

"Sometimes talking to Dad is like talking to a really stubborn horse."

Vic snorts. "I left before we started really laying into each other," she says, and thinks of her failed marriage and the subsequent divorce. "I don't want to get to that point."

"Cool off. Give him some time to calm down, too." It's a gentle suggestion. It's a good one, too, and Cady follows it up with another. "And then sit down and talk to him."

Vic fights the urge to go find him and talk now, immediately. It won't help, she reminds herself. They both need space right now. She's got a little bottle of her as-needed anxiety medication in the truck that she might have to take. It's a product of anxiety, her need to force an end just so that the whole thing will be finished. 

A light knock on the doorframe startles her out of her thoughts. 

"Bunch of dead cows on Cunningham's ranch," Ruby says, neon pink post-it note in her hand. "He says he thinks it's either a wolf or poison."

"For fuck's sake," Vic groans. "Those are two very different methods. We don't even _have_ wolves in Wyoming anymore." She shakes her head and stands, hears Walt talking in her head about the history of wolves in Wyoming while they made dinner a couple of months ago. 

Cady stands, grabs her hat and loses the cardigan. There may be hope for the new Sheriff Longmire yet. "Welcome back."

* * *

The day doesn't distract Vic as much as she hoped it would. By the time the clock hits six, she's tired of thinking and overthinking, the morning on her mind all throughout dealing with Cunningham's poisoned cows and pulling idiots over for speeding down roads they thought were empty. 

She doesn't want to stay at Cady's anymore, and tells her as much. Cady nods and smiles, says, "Zach didn't get a chance to go home and pick-up the mess anyway." It's a little shady, like Cady hadn't really thought Vic would stay with her.

Whatever. Vic can't work up the energy to care.

So instead she drives home. Figures if Walt's not ready to talk, they'll just be silent. Vic will throw dinner together for herself and fall asleep on the couch. That's the most realistic thing that could happen, Vic thinks. She knows without a doubt that Walt won't kick her out or anything like that. He loves her too much, is probably starting to feel guilty for how he acted this morning, if Vic knows him at all.

However, when Vic gets the door open, she's hit by the smell of something delicious. Some kind of meat. She can hear the sizzling, and her stomach growls in response. She makes noise when she comes in, the jingle of her keys and the thump of her boots. 

"Hey, Vic," she hears, but Walt doesn't appear from the kitchen. Probably too busy frying whatever smells so good. "This'll be done in a few minutes."

It's a good sign that they're talking to each other, at least. Vic hates getting a cold shoulder. Walt doesn't stonewall her very often, knows how much it stresses her out to be ignored. He gets her, is the thing, accepts her anxiety and all the little ways that she's changed. Vic likes to think she does the same for him. 

"Hey," she finally remembers to reply, and goes to change.

When Vic comes back and steps into the kitchen, she's greeted by Walt's broad back in a t-shirt. Retirement looks good on him, keeps the bags away from his eyes and the stress out of his shoulder. Mostly. He's probably got a few tension knots somewhere with Vic's name on them.

Vic can't resist. She's tired, and she doesn't want to argue anymore, and she stepped in cow shit like ten times today. It must settle something in Walt too when she wraps her arms around him from behind, because she can feel him breathe out when she presses her cheek to the warmth of his back. She leans on him, and he takes her weight. 

"Smells amazing," she says."

"Pork chops."

And then they're in silence, save for the sound of the skillet and the steady breathing under Vic's cheek. If she closes her eyes, she thinks she could almost fall asleep like this. 

But.

"Walt." Vic doesn't lift her head from his back. The stove knobs click when he turns them off, and the sizzling starts to die down.

"Vic."

"You don't get to boss me around," Vic says. The words feel aggressive but come out soft. Maybe not aggressive, but firm. Firm is good. "I'm a grown-ass woman who makes her own decisions, just like I don't boss you around."

Walt snorts, a quiet laugh. "You tell me to watch my sodium intake all the time, Vic."

It's a joke, she knows it is. Levity. Vic can appreciate it now. "The only person who knows when I'm ready is _me_. You can be worried all you want, and you can talk about that, but you don't get to try and trick me into staying home or tell me that what I'm feeling or thinking isn't right." It's a lot of words. Vic's glad she's not actually looking at Walt's face. Communication in this relationship hasn't come easy to either of them. "It hurt, Walt."

"I'm sorry," Walt says. His hands are big where they cover hers on his waist. "You're right, and I'm sorry."

Music to her ears. Vic smiles, turns her head so she can feel the soft fabric against her forehead. "Thank you," she says into his shirt.

A second later, she's being jostled. Walt turns so that they're facing each other, and Vic has to smile a little at the guilty, hang-dog look he's wearing. She expects to be wrapped up in a hug, but instead she gets calloused hands on her shoulders, threading through her hair. It's loose, she took it down when she changed, and it's soothing to feel Walt's fingers in the strands.

He cups her cheek. Vic opens her eyes just to close them again when he kisses her, gentle and quiet. "I'm sorry, Vic," he murmurs when they break apart, his forehead pressed to hers. 

"I know." Vic's just as quiet. "We're working on it. We'll get there." 

They bask in the silence for a moment longer, until Vic's tired body begs her to sit down. 

"Dinner and then bed?"

Vic gives a short, quiet laugh. "Yes. Feed me before I faint, Walt, you can't make good fucking food and then distract me from it."

She can read between all of Walt's lines, but Vic doesn't want to all the time. Walt doesn't know how to process a good chunk of what he feels, let alone express it. They're working on it, coming together to build a strong foundation, changing for the better. 

_We'll get there_ , she thinks again, quietly in the back of her mind when she sits down at the table to eat. _We're on our way._

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if I hit the mark of what I was going for, but I hope you enjoyed anyway!


End file.
